No Cloak, No Dagger: Allied Spycraft in Occupied France

Introduction

There are plenty of weak books about SOE, the special operations executive of which the task was to spread mayhem in Axis-occupied countries during the world war of 1939—45. This is one of the strong ones: a brief, telling account of what being a special agent on duty actually felt like at the time. Few other books are half as vivid; few other authors had quite so many sorties into danger, or quite so much luck in escaping it.

Ben Cowburn was a Lancashire-born oil engineer, in his early thirties when the war against Hitler began, who had been brought up in France and — rarely enough for an Englishman — spoke good unaccented French. He was short, stockily built, with straight sandy hair and a toothbrush moustache, quite unexciting in his looks. His command of French drew him to SOE’s attention; he was posted away from his infantry unit to these special duties, passed the usual paramilitary training courses and a parachute course, and dropped into France as early as the night of 6/7 September 1941. Already an army captain, he was of course dressed in plain clothes of French appearance, even if made in Soho, and fortified with a mass of false papers, including a certificate of demobilisation from the French army in which he had notionally fought in the summer catastrophe of 1940. Such papers were forged for SOE at its Station XIV at Briggens Hotel near Harlow, by the cream of the Polish and British forgery professions who happened to be out of prison when approached; they were usually undetectable as forgeries.

For his first few days back in France, he found it hard to remember that his false identity was not written on his face but soon got used to behaving as if he still belonged there, and got on with his work. He had a task of strategic importance, to inspect as many French oil refineries as he could reach and report on how they could be sabotaged. Brooks Richards has a good story in his fine Secret Flotillas, of Cowburn’s sabotage of a refinery he had built with his own hands; but the agent himself confessed that he had not been able to tackle any of his targets, the guards were too stiff.

He also found out a great deal about conditions of life in wartime France, and found his own way of crossing the demarcation line between the occupied and non-occupied zones: hidden underneath the body of a large railway locomotive that ran between Bordeaux and Montauban, in a cavity into and out of which he was helped by friendly railwaymen — who asked no questions and accepted no payment.

He soon got swept up into the orbit of Pierre de Vomécourt, alias Lucas, his section’s first important agent in France, a Lorrainer baron educated in England who did wonders to get SOE’s independent French section on to its working feet. This took him back to Paris, which looked more beautiful than ever when deprived of its plinth of motorcars. Unhappily Lucas was embrangled with a sergeant in the Abwehr, the German armed forces’ security service, called Hugo Bleicher, who pretended to be a colonel in the German army of anti-Nazi leanings. (‘I did not think he could be a colonel,’ Cowburn said, ‘he wore such cheap shoes’.) Madame Carré who was Lucas’s link with a wireless operator turned out to be a double agent, working for the Abwehr; hideous complications ensued, which led Cowburn to make an escape on foot over the Pyrenees into Spain.

He got safely back to England, and was soon despatched on a second mission, parachuting into the Limousin on 1/2 June 1942. He again made touch with a rich farmer called Chantraine, who had received him on his first drop and, like so many wealthy peasants, supported the communist party as least likely to take away his land. He was able to organize a little sabotage round Châteauroux, but without a wireless operator of his own could not get much going; he returned, this time by Lysander light aircraft, in October. He gives a lively account of exactly how the Lysander trip was run.

His third mission was more productive. Again he went in by parachute, this time south of Blois on 11 April 1943, with John Barrett (called Honoré) as his wireless man. They set up a circuit, codenamed Tinker, round Troyes, and brought off a splendid sabotage coup, putting a dozen railway engines out of action in a single night. Preparing this, Cowburn made one mistake: he lectured his whole team of saboteurs in a schoolroom, showing on a blackboard exactly what they were going to do, and forgot to wipe the blackboard clean. Luck was with him; the headmaster’s wife (whose husband was on the team) saw it before school opened, and made all safe. Unaccountably, this coup was left out of Tony Brooks’s summary made at the end of the war of all the circuit’s best demolitions.

The Germans were much put out by this coup, and Cowburn got out by Lysander in September, leaving the circuit in charge of his friend Pierre Mulsant a local timber merchant, who later came out by air also, bringing Barrett with him. These last two went back to France in March 1944 to set up a new sabotage circuit in the Seine-et-Marne, just south-east of Paris, but got arrested during the midsummer turmoil of 1944. Cowburn made a fourth sortie by parachute in July to try to rescue them, but too late; they were murdered that autumn in Buchenwald.

Cowburn describes how mercilessly mean town life was in Pétain’s two-fifths of France, that was unoccupied by the German army until November 1942. Shops were still open, but had hardly anything worth buying to sell. Food was short to the verge of famine, except on the black market, in which villains were lining their own pockets. Coffee had vanished, replaced by an odious dark brown liquid that almost made him (and me) vomit, composed from acorns. Croissants and baguettes had vanished too, replaced by barely eatable dark bread. There were no fewer than fifteen separate police forces, competing with each other to enforce a myriad of new rules (every bicycle, for example, had to have its own numberplate). Even in occupied France, everybody equipped himself with a little box in which to store cigarette-ends, later to be repacked into further cigarettes, as well as another to hold such little sugar as was to be found on the ration — it was no longer served in cafés.

He knew, only too well, the risks he himself ran, and did what he could to minimise the risks run by his helpers; but acknowledges, over and over again, that they ran much worse risks even than he did. As well as all Vichy’s police forces, they had to contend in the occupied zone both with the Abwehr and with the deadlier Gestapo, the secret state police. He knew that on his first mission he must have been seen by several Abwehr agents, one at least of whom had probably photographed him, and that the Gestapo had at least heard of him, if they had not yet bothered to investigate him. He thought that, given luck as well as courage, he could steer clear of both these bodies; but his French helpers, however brave, were much less likely to be lucky, because they were tied down by businesses, houses, wives, sometimes children — all of them liable to seizure if anything went wrong. It was an offence even to tune in to the BBC; many of his helpers went a great deal farther than that. Luckily for all the circuits he headed, he was an extra prudent agent; terrors enough remained.

His four sorties into France were exceptional — I only know of one agent who did more, Victor Gerson who was with him on his first operational jump, but then went off on a separate mission to organize the secret and effective ‘Vic’ escape line, and re-entered France secretly six more times. That wayward stream the fount of honour played rather oddly on Cowburn: for all his gallantry and his efficiency, he was fobbed off with a military cross, while over a score of his fellow circuit organizers — some of them not half his worth — were appointed to the distinguished service order. He was probably too outspoken to be cosseted with fine gongs. Here is his book, at any rate, reprinted after nearly fifty years, to explain to us what he and the secret life he led were really like. He returned to Paris after the war, and married a former secretary to Georges Bidault, a leading figure in the Fourth Republic. He died early in 1994. Both Great Britain and France owe him a great debt.

M.R.D. Foot, 2009

Preface

This is not a complete account of my war experiences, but simply an attempt to describe the impressions of a British officer engaged on a special mission in France during the German occupation. To this end I have selected a number of episodes, scenes and details—all authentic—which I consider typical.

Those of us who had the privilege of living with the French during their ordeal are able to understand their inner feelings, their distrust of politicians who led them to disaster and their contempt for bureaucracy, which was, in their minds, associated with the application of restrictions imposed by the enemy

The calamity of occupation brings out the worst and the best. Like my brother-agents, I saw both. The worst was shameful. The best was fine, as fine as could be found anywhere.

PART ONE

1. Fly R.A.F. to the Continent

ON A clear windless evening in early September 1941 we were being helped into a Whitley bomber on an aerodrome about sixty miles north of London. We certainly needed assistance; our flying-suits, parachute harnesses and packs had turned us into clumsy human sausages.

In those days, moreover, separate luggage-parachutes were not yet provided and we could take only such personal effects as could be stuffed into our flying-suits. This made us even clumsier. My pyjamas, in particular, made a rather ludicrous bulge. In fact, I had been allowed to retain them only after an argument in the dressing-hut with a very tall and superior Guards officer (staff, of course) who could not see that the likes of us should need pyjamas. Only the wireless-transmitter which one of my fellow-passengers was taking had its own special packing. It hung in a foam-rubber-lined bag from the roof of the fuselage directly above the exit-hole in the floor. It was to be attached by strops to its owner’s rigging, so that both George (all wireless-operators were known as ‘George’ in those days) and his transmitter would go down together under the same parachute.

There were six of us in this single operation. Each had a different destination, but due, I believe, to a shortage of aircraft and reception facilities, we were to jump together near Châteauroux and then proceed separately to our various destinations in France.

We had been told that this was not to be a ‘blind’ drop, but that a reception committee would show lights on the ground to guide the aircraft to the spot chosen for the drop, and that they would also help us on arrival.

At the door we took leave of our guardian angel, Thomas Cadett (poor Thomas! he had had to be patient as an angel at times with our crowd!), and we clambered along inside the fuselage to the various positions we were to occupy for the flight. The floor was formed by the top of the long low bomb-bay and we lay on it with our heads and shoulders propped against the sides of the long corridor-like hull.

The air was filled with that odour peculiar to military aircraft —a light, oily, tinny smell. All was quiet outside as the door was closed and the twilight shut out. After a short pause the engines started and we began to move. We felt the acceleration and bumping of the take-off and soon had settled down to cruising speed.

Inside the fuselage with us were the R.A.F. sergeants who were to act as dispatchers. They were helpers, stewards and advisers to us during these operations. They brought refreshments and gave us information. In particular, it was the dispatcher’s job to attach the automatic-opening strop, known as the static line, to your parachute. The principle is that, as operational parachutists are dropped, for accuracy, from too low an altitude to have time to open the canopy themselves, the bag containing the parachute is tethered by means of this strop to a point inside the fuselage. As the man drops away and the strop is pulled taut, it holds back the bag, thus liberating the canopy a short distance below the plane. Whenever the dispatcher made the attachment, he always showed you the connection, so you could feel sure your ’chute would open.

The curious nose-down flying attitude of the Whitley was quite obvious from inside. Though I was lying on the floor I could see that the fuselage was sloping upwards towards the tail and asked the dispatcher if we were going down. He said, no, we were even climbing slowly.

There were no windows and we were reclining on the floor, almost unable to move in the dimness. At the forward end was the partition which hid from our view the nose section containing the controls and flying crew. Right at the stern was the rear-gunner in his revolving turret. The exit-hole was a short distance aft of the forward partition and was covered by boards.

George IX, the owner of the transmitter, lay forward of the hole, and I just aft of it, with the four other ‘bodies’ further along the fuselage. The order of exit was to be: first George and his wireless-set, then myself, then one more man. The aircraft was then to circle and drop the last three during a second run over the target, as it was felt that six men in a single row (or stick) would be dispersed over too great an area. Running these arrangements over in our minds, we settled down for the three-hour journey.

The uneasiness I was feeling was quite different from the anxiety of the practice jumps. I was no longer worried about banging my face on the opposite edge of the hole . . . or getting hurt while landing. This time there was no worrying about the mechanics of the jump itself, as there was a chance of a great deal more bother after reaching the ground. Also, there was the feeling of being cut off from normal surroundings and of entering a new world.

As we approached the Channel the meagre lighting was switched off and we were in the dark. When the dispatchers moved about amidst the tangle of legs and webbing straps they used hand torches, which made the hanging radio-bag look rather sinister as it swung gently to and fro over the cover of the exit-hole.

When we were over the Channel we were told that if we heard firing it would probably be the rear-gunner testing his guns and not necessarily a scrap with a Messerschmitt. One of the principles of the Royal Air Force was that every bit of equipment should function perfectly. The least sign of a defect in the operation of any component would mean a return home. It was only on this condition that they would ask men to fly over enemy territory, and that was probably why I never had any fear of my parachute failing to open.

So we droned on through the night. I was surprised to find myself dozing. We all seemed to have no difficulty in dropping off to sleep as we were advised to do by the dispatcher with the assurance that he would see we did not ‘miss our station’. In fact he had to awaken me from a nap to say we were passing over Tours and that we should soon reach the target. He raised the two halves of the exit-hole cover and George and I could then look down and see the moonlit ground passing below. The pale light which came up was supplemented by a small electric lamp. We were soon over the then unoccupied part of France, and there were a few lights in the streets of the towns. It was Saturday night and about the time when people were going home from the cinemas.

There was a certain amount of bustle inside the aircraft as we were made ready. We were losing height and then came the news that the ground-signals had been spotted. George and I moved right up to the opposite edges of the hole with the radio-bag swaying between us. A little red light appeared on the wall. George swung his feet down into the hole and remained poised on the edge by his hands. The dispatcher raised his arm, the engine note changed, and the floor heaved up and down as the captain levelled out at the altitude of *500 feet prescribed for dropping. The red light changed to green, down came the dispatcher’s arm, and George and his radio-bag vanished with a crash, leaving nothing but the strop of the static line hanging down through the hole.

As I in turn swung my legs out over space, I could not help thinking that it was rather like a conjuring trick. I pushed with the palms of my hands on the edge and suddenly there was another conjuring trick as the whole aeroplane vanished and I was blasted head over heels by a torrent of wind. The canopy opened and first held me flat on my face in the air looking down at the ground. Then I began to swing to and fro like a great pendulum through ever-decreasing arcs until I was floating straight down. My stomach, which seemed to have been left behind in the plane, resumed its normal place. I hit the ground with a crack sooner than I expected. I picked myself up and was faintly surprised to find I was quite unhurt. The drop had seemed unusually short, and I later learned that we had been released from only 300 feet.

As I struck the disc which loosened the harness from the box on my chest, a man ran up to me, seized my hand and warmly welcomed me to the soil of France with the words: ‘Tout va bien, camarade? Tu n’es pas blessé? Tu viendras chez moi à la ferme, tu pourras te réchauffer et manger.’

As I returned his greeting, I thought that, after all, parachuting was a far better way of entering an occupied country than a long sea voyage.

I have described this journey at some length as dropping operations whether of agents or supplies played a major part in all our activities.

Moreover, although I have since made a considerable number of air journeys, the flight of an aeroplane still maintains its fascination for me, but I do, of course, prefer comfortable airliners which one is not required to leave through holes in the floor.

When the aircraft had finished its second run and flown away into the night, we were nine on the ground, the six ‘bodies’ and the three members of the reception committee. There was a bit of a fuss as one of the ‘bodies’ had dropped into a nearby pond and had to be fished out dripping wet. However, our ’chutes were soon collected and we made our way, filing along hedges, past barking dogs, to the farmhouse belonging to the man who had greeted me.

We heard a train in the distance and a motor-car on a nearby road. At the time there was little information in England on the exact conditions which prevailed on the Continent, and I wondered how many cars were still running.

In the kitchen of the farmhouse